


Ferdibert Fiasco: Tea and Pee

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom Hubert von Vestra, He learns a lot about himself!, Humiliation, M/M, Omorashi, Sub Ferdinand von Aegir, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: What it says on the tin. Hubert spikes Ferdinand’s tea and degrades him while he sits in a seminar. Ferdinand is a glutton for attention even (especially) when it leads to punishment. Hubert is mean. They have potential together, I think!
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Ferdibert Fiasco: Tea and Pee

If Ferdinand were being honest with himself—and he must, regardless of the unfortunate, impending disaster—he had held his suspicions beforehand.

Hubert meant to humiliate him. There could be no alternative intention. The conversation was too cordial to be genuine— Ferdinand could not count the amount of times they had argued over something as simple as preferring coffee or tea. For Hubert to invite him to share his favorite brand of Southern Fruit Blend without a single jab at his character should have struck him as untrustworthy earlier than it did, but by that time his cup had already been filled to the brim. It was too late—too impolite—to refuse. 

_“I insist_.” Hubert raised his own cup to take the first sip, still rather emotionless, but extraordinarily focused on seeing the task through to its end. And—like a fool—Ferdinand drank. He drank until he was asking for another cup, determined to drain the entire pot before Hubert could even think of helping himself to more. 

Ferdinand had indulged, he will admit to it, but it was difficult to refuse when Hubert was so cordial. To make matters all the more irresistible and unfair, Hubert had prepared everything perfectly. The aroma wafting from the divot of the lid was enticing enough to speak for itself. For a man who claimed to only drink coffee, Hubert knew exactly how to draw the natural flavor out of tea. 

The richness of it was another clue. Ferdinand loves the sprightly citrus tang, but today it tingled with the wrong kind of depth.

A depth that is currently expanding in his abdomen as he sits through their Sunday seminar. It tingled on his tongue then. It tingles in his gut now. Every second all the more. 

He must ignore it. He can. Of course he can. He is Ferdinand von Aegir. This is nothing. A minor inconvenience. 

He continues to tell himself so, maintaining his dignity. Upholding his appearance. For now, it is fine. If he ignores it, it will likely go away. It could not take long...

Byleth raps the desk at the front of the room for attention. Ferdinand jolts, and nearly rams his knees up into his own wooden slab. In the desk beside him, Hubert shuffles, rolling an eye over with a droll expression. 

“Do contain your excitement, von Aegir.” He is somehow able to continue scribbling notes with one eye on him, another on the parchment, and two ears attuned to Byleth’s monotone instruction. “You may demonstrate your failure to surpass Lady Edelgard in yet another subject once the Professor has finished.” 

Ferdinand scoffs, saving his retort for another time when he could be positive the enthusiasm of their skirmish would not exacerbate his current condition. Hubert was not a pleasant man. In fact, it was unkind to compare him to other men, even. Hubert was not pleasant. A shame, for with the proper grooming befitting of a noble, he would, at least, be a delight to behold. 

“I do not know what you are referring to.” Ferdinand grips his pen a little tighter to compensate for containing the ghost of tremors as they manifest in his wrists. “I am always many steps ahead of Edelgard.” 

He was quite capable of that challenge— and this. This was something he was eager to demonstrate. After all, he was heir of house Aegir; what a coward he would be if he were to turn tail and run from a little discomfort. He had fought battles much worse than the current complication; being forced to sit and wait isn’t dangerous. Hubert’s claim is, once again, preposterous.

“It appears as if you’ve run into some trouble.” Hubert’s tone is lightened with amusement, and it makes Ferdinand flush with anger. The reaction is not missed. A pause, and then his voice is darkened deeper than the pitch black void of his hair. “It’s rather warm, isn’t it? Feeling full yet?”

Ferdinand shivers. The weight of Hubert’s words shoot straight to the swell of his stomach, making him bite back a groan. He glances down, scarcely believing that he has not become so large that he would remain stuck in his chair by the end of the seminar. He must ignore it. Hubert is only speaking down to him as he usually does. It is all merely an exaggeration. 

Except that this time it is not. It is edging closer to concerning. He is starting to believe Hubert’s earlier taunts that the sensations would become more and more precarious the longer the seminar went on, and Byleth was far from finished with even her preliminary demonstration. 

“Something wrong, Ferdinand?” The sliver of a new moon temporarily graces Hubert’s face, illuminating a rare humor there. Ferdinand’s face, on the other hand, is dubious at best; uncertainty doesn’t suit him, and the sweat beading at his forehead is telling far more than he wishes to be revealed.

“Of course not.” His voice, at least, remains considerably mellow. Hubert is watching him intensely; he cannot allow for any cracks to indicate his strain. It is a terrible time for his throat to become so dry. 

“Hmm.” Hubert feigns disinterest, but that one eye does not return to his paper, even as his moon smile diminishes. It is extremely unnerving. Ferdinand does not like it. He is not one to refuse attention, but what he is receiving now is akin to an ant being studied under a polished slate of glass and it leaves him...strangely thirsty.

Tensing his thighs, he finally coughs, wincing at the premonition of a wet, acrid scent that almost fulfills itself. Instead, the tingle spreads, hotter and hotter. The agonizing strain matches the temperature, fighting all the compression of his muscles. His dick begins to harden, to his horror, until the bulge would be perceptible to anyone who would pass him by. 

“How does it feel…?” Hubert’s question is proposed lower than the scratch of his pen. Ferdinand almost believes he imagines it. “I was informed the ground herb would not only quicken the need to relieve one’s bladder, but additionally leave the victim peculiarly aroused and desperate for more.” 

He stops at the end of a sentence, punctuating the period with a patronizing flourish. 

“Fancy another cup?”

“What purpose will this serve?” Ferdinand hisses, his cheeks like red spring roses, fully in bloom. “Other to embarrass me in front of my classmates? You wish to soil the Aegir name!” 

“Perhaps.” Hubert considers, stroking his chin. The scratching resumes, first by fingernails tucking a loose strand of hair behind an ear, then again when the point of his pen reaches for the page. Ferdinand would bet his family fortune that much of what it transcribes is nonsense—a mere excuse to annoy him through an already harrowing trial. “Perhaps you should consider how you look to me, at present.” 

“How I look..?” Ferdinand is baffled, certain that he would be mortified to be handed a mirror. “I am aware of how I must look suffering from what you have done to me! Why do you torment me so?” 

Hubert finishes the paragraph with silence and a steady hand, allowing the chaotic urge in Ferdinand to churn, momentarily unprovoked. “You should reconsider your image from a lower standing.” He slides the parchment to the side, grabbing a fresh piece and smoothing it before he enscribes his name and purpose in the top left corner. “Humiliation suits you nicely.” He tilts his head back, pushing his bangs away. Both of his eyes deviate from the following task to drink in the sight of Ferdinand, openly trembling— internally quarreling with a dozen odd desires. “That is what I think.”

Hubert’s voice softens and drops off toward the end. Ferdinand follows the descending note down to his lap, where there is just as obvious a tent as his own.

“You…” Ferdinand refuses to look at it again to confirm it is real. His words must be enough of a confession this time. “You are _enjoying_ this.”

“Yes.” Hubert replies with no delay. He turns his face back to the parchment, but does not attempt to cover himself. In fact, he shifts the offense more in Ferdinand’s direction.

“You are....you are depraved. _Deranged_.”

“I am.” 

The pen stops its quivering. Ferdinand quietly gasps at the simple ease at which Hubert so openly confessed his perversion. The hunger in half of his gaze returns, and Ferdinand’s bulging stomach drops all the more— wishing to be swallowed into the wide, darkened pupil. 

“Is there somewhere you would like to go?” Hubert searches him like a man selecting his first meal after a long fast. “I’m certain the Professor would excuse you without you needing to cause such a fuss.”

“I am causing nothing!” Ferdinand snaps, breathless with arousal and rage. “ _You_ are the cause of this.” He twists his thighs tighter, accusations overflowing with grief and tension, seeking resolution where his body cannot. “Do not try to pretend that this very scenario was not a part of your scheme to humiliate me!” 

“You enjoy being humiliated, Aegir.” Another jab to the gut. Ferdinand’s cock aches with the truth even when his mind denies it. “You return to challenge Lady Edelgard daily with little improvement. It’s time you learned a lesson in restraint.” 

“You are horrible.” Ferdinand is still too shocked to admit he is about to cry. His body is a dam seconds away from bursting and drowning the entire room simultaneously in arousal and misery. “What a horrible thing for one noble to do to another.”

He is unable to straighten his spine any longer. His calves are beginning to bow out, comically. Byleth’s pauses between their sentences are longer. Ferdinand could not excuse himself without drawing unwanted attention. He could not allow Hubert to have any additional satisfaction. Miserable or not, he could not forfeit. 

“I am Lady Edelgard’s vassal before I am anything else.” Hubert’s body is completely turned toward him now, the tilt of his head leaving his eyes once again unobstructed by his bangs. The stark intimidation works like no magic Hubert had used against Ferdinand before. “You are nothing but a fragile foal soon to slip in a puddle of his own filth.” 

“I am not…” Ferdinand protests weakly, hushed softer than the pounding in his ears. He is more and more unsure of exactly what has finished leaking through his smalls to bloom at the front of his pants. “ _I will not.”_

“You _will._ ” The eyes narrow in unmistakable mirth, reinforcing cruelty. “Let it go, Aegir. Your weak declarations impress no one.” 

Ferdinand is not sure if he will come or pee first, he is only certain now that both _will_ occur and that there are an indeterminate amount of seconds left to delay it. He panics, digging his nails into the wood, wincing at the splinters it is bound to leave when he drags them down to twitch by his thighs. 

It does not happen the way he envisioned it. A lightness overtakes him, fuzzy and white, blanketing the corners of his consciousness. For one blissful breath he believes that he has won, that the urge he has been fighting finally retreated. Then, the illusion of inertia fades. A trickle hardly seems like enough to destroy him, but soon— _too soon—_ it is pooling and spilling out of the sides of his smalls to cover his thighs, and he can do nothing to stop it. He can do nothing but drag out the catastrophe so he _chooses_ to follow Hubert’s suggestion and just _lets it go._

It is an extreme balance to maintain— that mixture of distress and relief. Ferdinand whimpers, biting his lip and palming at his dick, making his hand sticky with piss. It is revolting to think about, but so _satisfying_ that he can let himself float away from the reality for a moment, hump into his slick hand as the stream sputters and dies, then spurts again, even hotter, thicker, more pleasurable than he had ever dared to dream about. 

He moans loudly, immediately slapping the palm over his mouth, gagging on the taste and smell. The sound of many pens rolling off to the ground make him wish he could faint rather than spend another minute staring into the astonished faces of his classmates— all frozen.

Hubert raises his nose into the air and gives a few sniffs, running a finger down the impressive bulge that no one but he and Ferdinand knows about— allowing for a single shiver. He makes certain to turn away from the rest of the class and hide it when he stands, positioning himself behind Ferdinand, raising him so that everyone can see the shameful mess still dripping down to his ankles.

“I will escort von Aegir to the infirmary. It’s likely he ingested something that made him ill. An accident like this would never have occurred otherwise.” 

Byleth raises an eyebrow. Edelgard sits just across from her, front and center and easily within range to watch as the mixture of revulsion and concern makes its way through the crowd. She blinks her own surprise, lightly covering her face with her hands, before turning back to her notes. Ferdinand sways, more wounded by her minuscule reaction than the horrified whispers and giggles from the rest of his friends. 

“I should take him.” Byleth offers, with no real urgency or tenderness, turning to put her weapons away, even so. 

“No need to concern yourself Professor.” Hubert is punctual, waving over his shoulder just as he manages to drag Ferdinand through the open doorway . The grip on his shoulder is bruising, but Ferdinand is much more preoccupied by the humidity of Hubert’s breath on his neck and the re-emerging circle of fire blazing across his damp skin. “Everything is under control.” 

It is all so intoxicating: the retreating burn of disgrace, the feeling of Hubert’s cock, grinding into the small of his back as he is urged onward, the indignity of being paraded like a show horse on display. Ferdinand dizzly allows himself to be led, grateful for the absence of any other mockery. His ears are buzzing like beehives, Hubert, the beekeeper whose gloved hands turn the honeycomb over to smother him in a sea of saccharine prospects. He is faint. He is unsure that his consciousness will last him if he is forced to gather enough composure to climb the stairs with Hubert pressed like this against him

There was no coming back from this. The Goddess herself could not perform a miracle strong enough to make them all forget. Even Linhardt, asleep as to be expected, was certain to have perceived his disgrace interrupting another dream. Poor Bernadetta, who just so happened to find interest strong enough to brave leaving her room, she had seen him and shrieked as he sunk further back into Hubert’s arms to smother his shame.

He is unaware of how far or long they wander, lost in the high, shallow breathing that is the closest he can come to a scream. The smell alerts him; gradually, he becomes aware of other astringent qualities that he cannot solely bear responsibility for. 

The creak of a hinge serves as a grounding point. Ferdinand reaches for the source with a few purposeful blinks, ears picking up on the sound of whinnying and hooves crushing hay. He regains focus, only to fall deeper into confusion. 

“This is not the infirmary.” His lips numbly proclaim a statement that has no emotional attachment. Hubert’s pants are straining as he saunters through the small space of the single stall and that is the only fact Ferdinand’s foggy brain can follow. He stumbles backward until he hits the hard wooden wall, squeaking in surprise. Hubert’s hand closes around his throat. 

Trapped. He is trapped. But...is he truly? To be trapped would indicate he desired escape from this predicament. His mouth watering tells him otherwise. His knees attempting to knock each other off course suggest he should remain put. He does not want Hubert to leave him here— alone and electrified. 

“On your knees.”

Ferdinand remembers the relief he experienced earlier when he followed Hubert’s command. Hubert had known then exactly what he needed to do. It felt good. _So good._ So encouraging to listen to someone who exudes complete confidence and control. It is an admirable quality. Something Ferdinand must learn to trust in others and not only in himself. 

He turns his face away, whining, hips jutting up to search for more pressure when Hubert _squeezes_ and—by the _Goddess_ —it’s almost enough to make him come again. There is only so much a man can take in the same day— even a man as great as he. 

“Knees, Aegir.” Hubert releases his neck, but before Ferdinand can even think to recover, a slap sends him reeling, face turned in the opposite direction. “I will not repeat myself again.”

He’s never been so quick to follow another's direction. It is more like kneeling on a cloud instead of soiled stone and hay. It is more autonomous than breathing at this point. More than any other crucial function, Ferdinand wants to obey.

“Here is where you belong.” Hubert draws his cock from his smalls and Ferdinand’s jaw drops open, ready to receive. He has never so much as touched another man intimately in his life, and yet here he is, soaked in his own urine, leaning in to brush his cheek high against Hubert’s thigh. A bead of pre-come dribbles down his chin—he is starving for it—his eyes confess the servitude his tongue is too busy running along the underside of Hubert’s length to offer.

“Look at you.” Hubert groans as he slides to the back of Ferdinand’s throat, twisting his fingers in his hair. “Like a common whore directly off the streets of Enbarr. The great Ferdinand von Aegir, so easily culled.” 

Ferdinand tries to pull away and protest, which is—he discovers—not an easy feat to accomplish when your mouth is stuffed full of your adversary’s cock. It makes Hubert laugh—a terrible sound that should not direct the hairs on the back of his neck to extend toward the fingers brushing against it—and push harder, until Ferdinand is choking and stinging from the stretch. 

“Surrendering already?” Hubert moves slowly, but stays deep, the head of his cock pulling back to drag against the soft palate of Ferdinand’s mouth before sliding down again. “I expected more from you— with the airs you put on.” 

Ferdinand raises his hands to press into the top of his throat, holding his chin steady, wobbling on his knees, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but determined to feel the bulge as it returns. The irrefutable physicality of the knowledge causes black spots to form in front of his eyes. Hubert is violating him—leisurely— _using him_ as he pleases with not a hint of concern for his health _or_ his pleasure and Ferdinand... _adores_ it. Every aspect of it: the hitches disturbing Hubert’s normally dignified breathing pattern, the absolute calm of his body falling pliant under the assuring palm holding his head still, the casual indifference in which Hubert kicks away his hands reaching to pull his own cock from his pants, pressing a toe against it instead. It is a hundred times more invigorating than battle. All that hard work he put into studying and sparring, when true victory was as easy as dropping to his knees and sticking out his tongue. 

“Your mouth is only useful like this.” Hubert pushes his entire length inside of Ferdinand and holds him there, sneering at the drool that pours out around his impossibly stretched lips. Ferdinand did not get much of a chance to observe Hubert’s cock before he was taking it, but it feels huge like this, like it would crack the sides of his face— leaving it in two halves. The tickle of wiry hair against his nostrils makes Ferdinand want to sneeze, but instead he moans, and the vibration does something to Hubert that Ferdinand would very much like to see occur again.

Hubert’s eyes close, and he swears. To whom, Ferdinand does not know, it does not matter, what is important is that Hubert _swears_ ; he loses his composure—for only a moment—before his eyes snap open again with a fierce possessiveness, and the high flush trailing a sunset over his cheekbones makes Ferdinand’s heart react as if he was on the verge of becoming violently ill.

“If this is what it takes to keep you quiet…” He begins—just as softly as he confessed to his arousal at the seminar—pulling all the way back until the head of his cock is resting on Ferdinand’s bottom lip, glistening with spit. “I will do what must be done.”

Ferdinand’s hasty gasp is not nearly enough to catch up on all of the breaths forsaken, but Hubert shows no mercy, shoving roughly inside, moving Ferdinand at an angle where he can somehow fuck deeper into him— _how is it possible?—_ balls slapping away at his chin. It is the lewdest sound Ferdinand has ever heard, because it is connected to _him; His_ body is the cause. Ferdinand’s cock jumps, pushing at the loose fabric of his uniform, in the utter fullness of it all. He groans alongside Hubert, accepting the stretch, fantasizing about the fingers currently digging into his scalp stretching his ass instead, spearing into him, curling and scissoring until he’s opened and ready for Hubert to fill him with his seed.

He reaches into his pants again, unable to resist the pain of going untouched any longer. Hubert watches him paw at himself pathetically without relenting in speed or force, making it all the harder for Ferdinand to get a grip. His fingers slip before they even reach below his stomach and by the time he makes it to the inside of his smalls he is a sobbing, blubbering mess. He is already struggling to stay afloat on knees that have long since lost sensation and only one hand to prevent his skull from smacking into the stone were they to give out. He is still suffering under the effects of whatever Hubert put in his tea, overheating in clothes that cling to him from sweat and piss and years of pent up sexual frustration.

It’s torture if he does and torture if he does not. Ferdinand finally gets his palm around his length, squeezing the frenulum, thumbing at the head and he _keens_ , certain that were he to continue it would only take a few swipes to spill again. 

Hubert’s ice cold tone stops him before he can. “If you finish before I am ready,” He promises Ferdinand. “You will regret it.”

Ferdinand does not understand why that is the most exciting thought of all, but he will not question it. He pauses, simply letting his cock hang free now, only jerking whenever the rest of his body does involuntarily, closing in on completion merely from the effort of restraining himself from following the urge. Dumbfounded and needing to focus on something other than the sensation of all of his nerves coming together to explode, that hand finds the spot where Hubert’s cock continues to assault his throat and presses into it— tracking the swell that lifts his fingers with every thrust. 

He closes his eyes, recalling with perfect clarity a strange face Sylvain made the previous day at the dining hall when discussing a date. Seconds before Dimitri clapped a hand over his mouth, apologizing for his behavior, Sylvain rather obnoxiously sucked all the air around him until his cheeks caved in like a fish. It was ridiculous, and Ferdinand had not cared enough to seek understanding, but now it came without pursuit. 

Raising his gaze to Hubert, Ferdinand finds him— heinous and unrestrained. The strands of his bangs separated and pressed to his forehead with sweat— mouthing spellwork that perhaps doubled as curses, groaning as if they are both entwined in the same trance. There is something instinctual about it—something mesmerizing—and Ferdinand falls deep into the invocation. He lets the same euphoria from earlier take him, the knots in his stomach uncurling to ascend up the flights of stairs he previously feared. He hollows his cheeks, swallowing more of Hubert than he ever thought possible and Hubert answers him by emptying in his mouth, yanking his hair roughly so that he cries out in pain and drops his jaw wide. 

Hubert pulls back, and keeps prying it further, leaving Ferdinand sputtering over the aching build up of spit mixing with fresh spurts of come— jacking himself off until the very last drop has spilled onto Ferdinand’s tongue. 

“You do know _something_ then…” Hubert swipes the last bit of it off and smears his wet thumb to the high side of Ferdinand’s cheek, still pink from his earlier strike. He does not remove either of his hands, waiting for Ferdinand to respond in some manner.

Ferdinand does not know what more Hubert could possibly want from him— much less that he had anything left to give. His cock is painful in the cooling air of the late afternoon breeze, long beyond the point of pleasure, and still it _demands_ from him—both of them, offering nothing yet expecting to be serviced again. His hands tremble at his sides, unable to cradle his head like he wants them to through with Hubert’s firm fingers halfway holding his jaw and halfway invading his mouth. Hubert continues to—unhelpfully—stand too near for him to think clearly, softening cock but a foot from his face and somehow even more assertive than it was completely down his throat.

“Take care of it.” 

The words ring in Ferdinand’s ears, but take far too long to register. What does snap him into action is the pressure of Hubert’s boot, nudging insistently at his base. It’s such an instantaneous moment of relief that he nearly faints, spine bent backward in the attempt to hump himself to fulfillment. Hubert kicks him away, retracting his hand, making him double over when he regains control of his body again. 

“Absolutely not. Are you a dog? I said for _you_ to take care of it.” 

Ferdinand whines— _like a dog indeed_ —spreading his thighs after falling back against the wall. He is admittedly afraid to touch himself—afraid that Hubert is playing yet another horrible trick on him—but he tries and fails to speak his concerns multiple times, mouthing much more pathetically at the air than Hubert did at the height of his passion. 

His cock is so sensitive he hisses when he wraps a hand around it but at least he has plenty of spit still to spare. Hubert leers at him, blocking him from even getting to his feet— as if there were anywhere he would go in this condition, or, truthfully, anywhere he would rather be. He is no longer surprised to feel a rush of excitement from the act committed in such close quarters. There is an intimacy to be discovered in the terror, in the assurance that Hubert _will_ ensure that he finish; Ferdinand does not doubt the intention to be so strong he would stand guard over him all night, wearing the same eerie possessiveness that rearranges the pattern of his pulse until the pleasure ultimately surges past his fingertips. 

It is not enough. Somehow, he knows, it will not be enough—that he could sit here and tug at himself in misery for hours with no release, until he was sweat-stained, and dehydrated, and nearly comatose. He half-sobs, half-laughs at the absurdity of it. Hubert remains unimpressed.

“It’s like you’ve never touched yourself before, Aegir— surely even you are not that chaste.” 

Ferdinand shakes his head, parched throat unable to convey anything that the contortion of his face or the desperation of his body is not already wailing. His thumb sits at the head, the underside of it pressing into the frenulum and merely letting the pre-come dribble down to hit the cold stone that he can still feel indented on his knees. He coughs—two tears welling—wishing for any drink other than that despicable tea, but craving nothing more. 

“Perhaps another cup of tea is necessary.” Hubert suggests, sending a chill through Ferdinand. Hubert could not possibly have gained the ability to read his mind from the herb. He could not have. _He could not—_

“Or perhaps,” Hubert’s voice is a hot tornado sucking all prior thoughts into the vortex. His toes click at the edge of the wall where he also braces a hand. Ferdinand throws his head all the way back, bumping it in his eagerness to see exactly how Hubert is looking at him from the new position. The dangerous glint is exacerbated when tilted at the particular degree— eyes like the obsidian jewels of Anubis ready to weigh his sins. “you simply need a reminder of your place under Lady Edelgard’s irrefutable reign.” 

_Oh,_ it is Hubert that knows what will save him— Hubert he needs to turn to. Ferdinand is adrift— wholly drunk under the stupor of his presence. Hubert’s hand is gripping his cock again, pointing it toward his chin, but he is not hard and Ferdinand knows what he is about to do— knows, and understands how deeply he needs it.

“ _Hubert._ ” He breathes—he finds he can do that much at least—voice hoarse and deeper than when he wakes at unspeakable hours of the morning in need of a drink. “ _Please_.”

It is not his pleading that Hubert is waiting for, but Ferdinand does not have to beg again. Hot warm liquid drenches him in no time, christening his neck, seeping down into the cracks of his armpits, soiling Ferdinand’s entire uniform, his dignity, his name. It is appalling, horrifically appalling, how easily he comes undone from the degradation. That is not, however, enough to prevent him from doing so. He is searing, soaring closer to the sun than he thought humanly possible, seeking to scorch his very bones to the core. 

Even with the overwhelming nature of his orgasm, Ferdinand retains the sense to close his eyes when the stream starts heading upward— _but not away,_ like any _civilized_ person would do. No, not away, like a noble should. He _should_ be sickened—this is far more repulsive than what he had already endured—but instead he is enamored. This is the loosening of restraints he didn’t know bound him. This is the buoyancy of becoming free. 

Instead of heaving, he moans, and his mouth stays parted to catch the stream as it sputters and heads back down. Hubert’s urine has left his claim many times over by now and Ferdinand is _swooning_ , his body physically unable to handle permanence under the reality Hubert has left him in.

_The reality Hubert has left—_

“Stop..” He rasps, sounding more decrepit than Solon cursing the cause of his death. Hubert does, close to the stable’s entrance, but keeps his back to him, and does not respond. “I...cannot move.” Ferdinand admits, raising his hand to twitch a few fingers before letting it fall. The thud catches Hubert’s attention more than his words do. 

“Must be a side effect.” Hubert pretends not to care, but the soft brushing of his boots disturbing straws of hay, the gentle contrast of how he lifts Ferdinand after all of the earlier yanking and shoving, suggests otherwise. Ferdinand’s stomach flutters a few notches higher, but once on his feet, he feels improved— though not enough to avoid leaning on Hubert's shoulder for support. Hubert grimaces at the dampness spreading onto his own uniform. “I’ll drop you off by your bedroom.”

Luckily for Ferdinand, the seminar concluded while he was...occupied, and most of the students were settled in the dining hall. 

“You would do well to remain silent about the motivation behind our sessions today. Hopefully, you at least learned that lesson.” Hubert reminds him as they near the dorms, no longer leering away from the sustained contact. “I cannot tell you all the effects of the herb, but there are reasons the secret is well kept.”

“I am certain there are.” Ferdinand whispers, coughing in place of a chuckle, still heavily influenced by the blissful feeling of electrical discharges shooting both above and beneath his skin. Whatever is causing the aftershocks does not matter. Little does, now that he is here, spinning throughout his room, tripping over the little pieces of armor littered across the floor. Hubert produces a small bucket in the event that once he lays down he forfeits much of his ability to move, which he finds he does. Near darkness encompasses him—it is a wonder he does not immediately submit—but he staves it off long enough to mumble in the direction of the door. 

“If you would not mind, Hubert.” A turn of the knob is the final sound Ferdinand’s consciousness can grasp. “Tomorrow, I should very much like to share another pot with you.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


End file.
